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In May—When The Nomads Migrate To The Forest-side Meadows
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Give him, a glutton, Excessive doze of the drink—
An ancient Arabian queen would give his king at bedtime
And leave to her lame lover in a den.
Or if there is a Greek flower to smell!
He‘ll wake up in a dozen weeks time
Like in a long dream,
As bears with the thunders in springs.

I’ll ask my maternal-grands’ well-off gujjar friend
(Supplying them laborers in springs—in land preparation time, 
and in late summers—at harvesting.)
Arrange some dozen horses—
Black and brown, hairy and tall.
A couple of mares followed by young naughty foals.
Loud ringing harnesses, soft dip-seated saddles.
A herd of some thousand goats and sheep—
Baby lambs and bucks—
Leaping and sprinting in joy.
 A long buffaloes’ herd, some half-mile long.
A dozen dogs and as many bi'ches.
Some roasters, and golden earrings for the big egg-laying hens.
Goatskin beddings and a tall tent;
All-- in our procession.
And a travel, to the far fog-covered grassy meadows,
There,
Across the northern forests and river.


We’ll enjoy long spiritual sits around high flaming fire,
On the lawns shall take walks in night.
 We’ll talk by the bank of the garrulous brook in moonlight,
 For hours shall sex as the unmoved frogs in seed-time,
And shall bath together in the brook, every cockcrow.

I promise you, my nomadess,
We’ll live decades in days…!
And return with
The sacred souls stirring in joy
Inside the bodies filled to the top.

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